Armand's Daughter

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Armand's Daughter Page 17

by Diana Dickinson


  “Perhaps you could use me to buy the Norman off?” There was sarcasm in Catherine’s tone and Gilles gave a bark of laughter.

  “I hardly think he’d find it a fair trade – a scrawny wench for the richest barony in Léon. But don’t worry, sister, if he looks like winning you can be sure that I’ll throw you in with the spoils of war.”

  “Gilles! Gilles!” Simon had grabbed his brother by the arm and was hopping with excitement. “Let me come! I’ve got my sword. I’m nearly a page. Let me fight too.”

  “Sorry, Simon. You’re too young yet. Stay here and guard my castle. Thierry, arm yourself then fetch my mail-coat and jerkin. We must ride out within the hour.” In a few strides he was through the doors and running down into the courtyard. “No, Rénard!” she heard him shout, “this time I’ll need you and your men with me.”

  In an extraordinarily short space of time, almost every fighting man in the castle was armed, mounted on any available horse, including Catherine’s, and was riding away. A few remaining knights, in charge of those on foot, issued each man with spear or a stout staff, then marched them out, trumpets and bugles loudly braying. Only the steward, Le Pennec, a few kitchen boys and the female servants remained.

  “We had better shut the gates and mount a guard,” Catherine said. “And someone had better tell Father Alain and the villagers to come up to the castle – they can bring their livestock with them, of course.”

  “That’s quite unnecessary, my lady,” de Faou said. “We understand that this fellow is still many leagues away. Should there be any sort of threat there would be plenty of time to organise a defence – besides, I hardly think Lord Gilles will permit the castle to be taken.”

  Father Alain also, for different reasons, thought there was no imminent danger.

  “It makes no sense for the pretender to the barony to harm what he hopes will be his own people and his own property.”

  “But he’s a Norman. What does he care for Bretons? He’d probably want to wipe us all out and bring in serfs of his own.”

  “You’re a Norman yourself – or had you forgotten?”

  “Not according to Yon and the others in Kerhouazoc.”

  “Catherine, Catherine calm yourself. I only wish you to consider this business from the other point of view. Lord Gilles is hardly a model of rectitude. It may be that this other man has qualities which...”

  “What? You support this invasion?”

  “Of course not. I’m a man of peace. My friend from Tréguier merely said that...”

  “No! I’ll not hear it! There is one man who could make a claim to this barony and he’s not some upstart from Normandy. If...my...my cousin was leading this attack I might feel differently. As it is, I regard this Beauchamp fellow as my mortal enemy and I shall do what I can to protect my home from him.”

  Refusing to listen to anything which anyone might say, Catherine forced herself to pace the battlements for hours each day, squinting anxiously into the distance, overcoming, with difficulty, her fear and hatred of the dizzying height of the narrow walkway. Everything was peaceful and still. The sun shone. The corn in the fields was ripe and the harvest began, as if there was no threat at all. The piles of sheaves grew higher every day and freed from their fear of Piriac and his like, the people sang as they worked. Gradually, Catherine’s own fear began to subside a little. She too went out in the fields, sickle in hand. If they could get it all gathered in, in the event of a siege, they would be safe.

  Then, little by little, the rumours began. No-one knew where they came from but they spread like wild-fire. The Norman baron had captured a village and burned down all the houses – with the inhabitants shut inside. He had captured children and had them baked in a pie. He practised the black arts – and could change his shape. Every night he ravished virgins on a blood-stained altar and, while they were still living, tore out their hearts and ate them. Baron Gilles might be a stern man but compared with Raoul, Baron de Beauchamp, Gilles was a saint.

  Catherine tried to reassure the villagers, claiming not to believe any of it. These were wild exaggerations, scare stories, put about to frighten them into surrendering! But she grew more and more uneasy as each day passed and she heard nothing from her brother or anyone who had ridden out with him.

  On September 21st the last of the harvest was gathered in. It had taken longer than she had expected as, each day, a few more of the strongest men seemed to have disappeared. She did not mention it to the steward – there was nothing that he could have done without Piriac and his men. Afraid that this Norman demon was about to descend on them at any moment, Catherine suspected they had slipped away to hide themselves wherever they could. She could hardly blame them. Tomorrow, she resolved, she would start shifting supplies to the undercroft of the western tower. Then, if necessary, they could all take refuge there.

  As the sun started to dip in the sky, she left the corn-field and walked the mile or so to the church. Father Alain had usually worked with them but today there had been no sign of him. Catherine hoped he was not unwell. His house, when she reached it, was quiet and deserted, the door locked and the windows shuttered. There was no-one in the church and the priest’s horse was not in its stable. Had he also run away? She refused to consider the alternative explanation which suddenly occurred to her. Surely Alain du Val was no traitor. He couldn’t have gone to join the enemy, could he?

  Barely glancing at her wilting herb garden, she turned away and trudged back to the castle.

  Tired with another day of back-breaking labour, when dusk came she lay down fully dressed on the bed in Simon’s room. He was asleep already. He too had been in the fields for most of the day. His long dark lashes curled on his healthy bronzed young skin and he looked the very picture of childish innocence. If only her mother could have lived to see him, Catherine thought, dropping a kiss on his soft cheek – he considered himself much too grown up now to be kissed when he was awake.

  She dozed. Then, in the deep recesses of sleep, she became aware of loud noises – shouting, thunderous banging, harsh cries. What was it? She sat up, heart pounding. Marie was asleep, snoring. Simon still slept. Very cautiously she stood up and went to the door. Yes, there were definitely noises coming up from below. Who was it? Gilles or Raoul? If it was her brother, she needed to speak to him, to find out what was happening. If it was the Norman, and he had taken the castle, she would have to confront him sooner or later – she couldn’t defend herself for long in here.

  Gingerly, quietly, she eased the bar from the door and swung it open. Then, bare-foot, she began to tiptoe down the stairs. The solar at the bottom was silent, in darkness. She crept through the curtain. It was from the Hall beyond that the racket was coming. She paused, listening to the strange cacophony of sound. A rhythmic chanting, almost like counting, was being bawled out by what sounded like many men. With it was another muffled thudding noise which Catherine could not identify. Then, intermittently, there were cries, thin, wailing cries which eventually were drowned out by another voice, harsh, loud, shouting in anger or in pain. The terrible stories of the Norman barbarian flooded back into Catherine’s mind and she froze. Then, after a final bellowing roar, there was a high pitched scream, silence, then sounds of laughter and cheering. Whatever was going on, she had to know who was there.

  Resolutely, she stepped forward, pushed aside the heavy curtain and peered out into the dimly-lit Hall. It was like being transported back in time. There was the same flickering, smoky torch-light, the same sprawled men and women – though this time no-one was sitting at High Table. In the middle of the rush-strewn floor lay a slender half-naked figure, face down in a pool of blood. A girl? Then, with a sickening jolt, she realised that it could not be a girl; it was a boy. The man who was getting to his feet and fastening his breeches was Gilles, her brother, and he had seen her.

  Terror filled her as he grabbed her arm and pulled her down the steps into the room.

  “You’re very welcome, Catherine,” Gilles
was saying, “we’re glad to see you.”

  “Aye, wench. We’ve unfinished business.”

  Blocking out her view of everyone else, Bellec was on his feet and moving towards her. He took hold of one of Catherine’s thick braids and wound it round his wrist.

  “You’re not getting away from me again.”

  “Please...” Catherine’s voice was just a strangled whisper. “Please let me go.”

  Bellec laughed. She could see the black rotted stumps of his teeth, smell his foul breath as he tugged her towards him.

  “Not likely. Take that carcass out and throw it on the dung heap. She can take his place.”

  Someone dragged the boy’s body aside. Absently, Catherine concluded that his throat must have been cut as the front of his shirt was thick with blood. A strange sense of unreality was coming over her. Bellec gave orders and she hardly heard them, hardly felt the hands which seized her, flinging her down onto the rush-covered floor. Was she lying in the boy’s blood? Did it matter? Someone was holding her wrists, painfully, above her head. Someone else had grabbed her ankles – two people, she supposed, and they were forcing her legs apart. Above her Bellec loomed, a huge bear-like figure, black pelted. He didn’t trouble to remove his fur jerkin. As he unfastened his belt and began to unlace his breeches, she shut her eyes.

  A rough hand was fumbling at her breasts and another was pushing up her skirts. A terrified cry burst from her lips and she began to struggle. Someone’s hand, whether Bellec’s or someone else’s, was pressed down over her mouth, stifling her screams. Her ankles, held in what felt like manacles of iron, could not be freed. She writhed and arched her body, trying to kick out, desperately trying to tear herself away.

  “Go to it, Tugon!” It was Gilles. “Teach the disobedient little bitch a lesson.”

  “Aye, Bellec, give it to her. She’s begging for it.”

  The sudden crushing weight on top of her told Catherine that it was about to begin. The rhythmic chanting had started again, accompanied by the thudding sound – dagger hilts drumming on the wooden tables, she realised now. She could feel Bellec’s naked maleness against her thigh, could feel his fingers, probing, squeezing, hurting. She had stopped trying to struggle – it was pointless anyway – and now she clenched her muscles, tensing herself against the inevitable, ultimate invasion. The man’s bulk shifted slightly as he positioned himself then, suddenly, there was an outraged cry, a bellow of pain.

  Catherine’s eyes flew open in surprise. Bellec was on his knees, swinging round. A wound on his naked buttock oozed blood. He had caught hold of a small figure dressed in white and was swinging him up in the air with an angry roar. It was Simon.

  “Don’t hurt her! Don’t you hurt her!” the boy was yelling, still flailing at Bellec’s head and shoulders with his sword.

  The men in the Hall were silent, unsure what Bellec or Gilles would do. They had released Catherine and she struggled into a kneeling position; all her fear now was for her brother.

  “Let him go,” she gasped. “Please...”

  “Damned interfering little monkey!” Bellec roared. “I’ll kill him! I’ll knock out his brains!”

  He had carried the still furious, screaming child across the Hall.

  “Tugon. Give him to me.”

  Gilles had interposed himself between the huge man and the castle’s cold stone wall.

  “Gilles! Gilles he was trying to hurt her! Tell him not to, please!”

  “It’s all right, Simon. Come here.”

  He took the boy into his arms, gently removing the sword from his grip.

  “She won’t give you any trouble now,” he said to Bellec. “I’ll take the boy back to his nurse.”

  Catherine was huddled on the floor, shaking.

  “But she’s hurt,” Simon protested. “I have to help her.”

  Gilles carried him back across the Hall and stood glaring down at Catherine. It was as if it was her fault.

  “You heard Tugon,” he said. “Tell Simon you’re well and the boy will be safe.”

  She took a breath to steady herself.

  “It’s all right.” She managed to say, attempting a reassuring smile. “It... it was just...a game. I’ve not been harmed. Go back to bed now.”

  “Come on, lad.” He turned away.

  “Gilles -”

  “Well?”

  “Tell Marie to...to bar the door.”

  “Right.”

  “Now then, wench, where were we?”

  As Gilles moved towards the steps, Bellec advanced on her again.

  Before he could reach her, a man burst in through the doors at the far end of the Hall.

  “My lord, my lord, there’s news!”

  He was panting, wild-eyed.

  “What is it?”

  Gilles turned back, still holding the child.

  “My lord, he’s taken Locronan and he’s coming this way! The town’s on fire and he has thousands of soldiers! You must ride out at once!”

  “Nonsense,” Bellec growled. “There’s no rush. We’ve time enough to finish with the wench.”

  “No, my lord, no, no! There’s no time at all. He’s less than ten miles away!”

  All around the Hall men were getting to their feet, pulling on chain-mail and helmets, finding their weapons.

  “Is it the Norman?” Catherine gasped. “What will you do?”

  “Give battle, of course – what do you think?”

  “But...”

  “Gilles,” Simon cried eagerly, “let me come. I can fight! You saw me.”

  “Yes, lad, I did.” He laughed grimly and glanced at Bellec who was fastening his belt. “I think you’d better come – get his clothes, girl.”

  “But...but he’s too young, you said so before. I...”

  “He’ll be safer with me.”

  “Please, Gilles, I beg you!”

  “No!” he bellowed furiously. “Now stop arguing and go!”

  He dragged her to her feet and gave her a vicious shove in the direction of the door. Stumbling, her legs hardly obeying her, Catherine struggled up the steps and climbed the steep stairs to Simon’s bedchamber.

  “My lady!” Marie exclaimed when she saw Catherine. “What’s happening? Where’s Simon? I heard voices.”

  Wearily, Catherine explained that the enemy army was very close and that Gilles wanted his brother to be with him. They pulled the most suitable clothes out of Simon’s coffers and hurried back downstairs.

  “My lord, let me come with him,” Marie begged as she bundled the boy into his hose, tunic and the leather jerkin he wore when practising with his sword.

  “Ridiculous!” Gilles exclaimed. “Who ever heard of a child’s nurse on a battle-field? You can trust him to my care.”

  “Women don’t fight, Marie, you see,” Simon explained patiently, his eyes gleaming with excitement. “Let me have my sword back, Gilles please. I’m sorry I was cross with your friend before. I don’t know about grown-up games yet.”

  “That’s all right, lad. We’ll teach you soon enough.” Bellec ruffled the boy’s hair. His terrible rage had vanished. “Right then. Let’s get to it.”

  The two women stood and watched as the Hall emptied. Frightened for her charge, Marie was snivelling. Catherine felt numb.

  When they had all gone, she noticed the dead boy, carelessly dumped in the corner and went across to look at him. He might have been about thirteen years old, she thought, perhaps less. His eyes, glazed green eyes, were still open and she closed their lids with a trembling hand. Did he look like Tristan? Those eyes, the dark hair, the shape of his features...but no, it was just a foolish fancy, the product of her terror and exhaustion. She could hardly remember the young minstrel anyway...it was so long ago. Six years? No, more like eight. She’d been a child then... And this boy’s shirt, all he wore, was made of the finest linen. He was no travelling player; he was from a wealthy home. Gilles, her brother had killed him in cold blood: he had first subjected him to some unspeakable
assault, and then he had murdered him. And if the rumours were even half true then his adversary was even worse than him.

  “Lady Catherine...”

  It was Thierry. She hadn’t noticed him earlier on. The boy looked pale, dishevelled.

  “Are you not riding out with the others?”

  “Yes, of course,” said the boy bleakly. “I have no choice.”

  “But they’ve gone. You must hurry if you wish to catch them.”

  “Catherine, I wanted to warn you...” He broke off, looking down at the corpse beside her.

  “Yes?” she prompted gently.

  “Lord Gilles is greatly outnumbered. The Norman baron fights like the Devil – your brother can’t win.”

  “So?” Catherine’s heart was starting to pound.

  “You can’t defend the castle – there’ll be no-one left here. Most of the servants have fled. Collect your women together and get out; go wherever it was that you went before.”

  “Why? What’s his quarrel with us?”

  Thierry’s gaze shifted from the dead boy to Catherine’s face and he met her eyes for the first time.

  “After what Gilles has done tonight, he’ll kill you,” he said softly. “He’s sworn to kill us all.”

  PART TWO

  CONQUEST

  1152 -1153

  Chapter Eleven

  It was in early August 1152 when Raoul de Metz, Baron de Beauchamp, crossed the border into Brittany, heading for Morbihan Castle near Vannes in the south. It was seven years since he had been there before – longer than that, as it had been in the spring of 1145 that the mummers had set out from the village of Sarzeau, a mile from the castle, on their fateful tour of Brittany. Where were they all now? Alive or dead?

  So much had happened since that night when he had escaped over the walls of Radenoc castle and left their troupe. He was no longer a nameless fugitive from Lord Armand or from his grandmother’s stifling vigilance. He was a baron, thanks to the Duchess of Normandy’s generosity and, with her aid and Bertrand’s he had a chance of recovering his honour and his inheritance. Before his recent visit to Valsemé he had feared that both were lost forever.

 

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